


Six Crates of Beer and One Cigarette

by peevee, Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of homophobia, Oral Sex, Rimming, university!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mike throw a party, Greg is a mysterious stranger, and things are awkward in the morning. But at least there's tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Crates of Beer and One Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written out of a mutual interest in Sexy!Older!Lestrade and John blushing. It's based on [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=33491799) prompt, but we deviated a little for the sake of porn. 
> 
> Persiflager took the reins on Greg, and peevee made John dance.

“Christ, what a weight!” comes Mike’s reedy voice, muffled by the boxes stacked in front of his face.

“Suck it up,” gasps John, staggering a little as they approach the flat. “Two flights of stairs to go.” He slumps against the front door, trying to simultaneously get the key in the lock and _not_ drop fifty quid’s worth of beer on the doorstep.

“Ugh, I need a break,” wheezes Mike, bending with a groan as he deposits their precious cargo on the pavement. John gives up his fight with the door and stacks his boxes on top of Mike’s before sliding slowly to the ground with a sigh of relief.

“Fuck, I am unfit,” he huffs. “You’re alright, with your muscles.”

“What muscles?” deadpans Mike, flexing his enormous biceps with a tired grin.

“Surely if you can kick the puny arses of half the heavyweights in London you can manage two little boxes?” says John, pointing accusatorily.

“Not a weightlifter, Johnny,” says Mike, slumping on top of the pile of boxes as if he intends to sleep there. John pokes him with his foot as passers by step around them. “C’mon. Heave ho.”

“Surely we don’t even need this much beer,” Mike groans, pulling himself to his feet and reluctantly gathering the boxes into his arms again. John just snorts.

-

They do, as it turns out, need that much beer. Perhaps, considers John muzzily, it had been a mistake to put posters on every single notice board at Bart’s, especially when they advertised free booze. He and Mike had agreed, though, that the only proper way to celebrate the arrival of your first student loan was to get absolutely, completely and properly wankered. His house is full of people he doesn’t know. It’s _brilliant_.

He pulls the fridge open with a yank that almost sets him off balance and gazes for a second into the empty whiteness. Hm.

“Mike!”

“Johnnyyyyyyyyy,” slurs Mike, coming up behind him and resting his chin on John’s shoulder. “Um. We need booze.”

“Gonna go to the offie across the road. Coming?”

“Nah, here,” he pulls a fiver from his pocket and shoves it towards John’s face. “Get me…um. Beer.” He grins a wide, drunk grin.

“Beer, got it. Beer.” He pats his pockets to check for his wallet before turning too fast towards the front door, almost tripping over nothing and snorting a laugh at his own ridiculousness.

He’s still giggling in the queue to pay at the shop, biting his lip to stifle them as he concentrates on staying upright with two six-packs stacked under his chin. The man in front of him keeps glancing backwards. John makes sure he has his widest grin plastered on his face, and the next time the man looks back John can see his mouth twitching into a little answering smile, his teeth gleaming white.

The man’s jacket is black leather, and John counts the stitches in it as he waits for him to buy his bottle of whisky at the counter. _Going somewhere fun?_ , he almost asks, but restrains himself because he’s definitely not drunk enough to be making conversation with random leather-jacketed men in shops. Probably.

“Hello?”

“What? Yes! Oh.” The woman at the counter is glaring at him impatiently, and he dumps his beer on it and holds out a tenner with his most winning smile.

“ID please,” the woman says, in the dead voice that can only belong to those who work in 24-7 corner shops.

There’s a laugh, suddenly, from his left, and he sees leather-jacket man leaving with his friends.

Right. ID. Er…

He presents it with a flourish and the woman flicks a cursory gaze over it before swiping the tenner from him and pouring the change perfunctorily into his hand.

Fuck, being eighteen is _excellent_.

-

There’s a man in a penguin suit jumping on a trampoline in Mike’s bedroom. John has no idea where the trampoline is from, but the penguin man seems to be having the time of his life. He wanders into his own (blessedly dark, penguin-free) room and leans out of the open window, taking a long gulp of beer and watching two girls throw a giant sparkly ball back and forth in the front garden.

“Fancy a smoke?”

“ _Jesus!_ ” he says, almost hitting his head on the windowpane as he jerks in surprise.

“Oh, sorry. Thought you’d heard me,” says the voice. John pulls his head in through the window, _no worries_ on his lips as he turns. The words die into stupid gaping.

Hel _lo._

It’s leather-jacket man from the shop earlier. He’s got a bottle of whisky in one hand and an unlit rollie in the other and he’s _smiling_ a smile full of even, white teeth. His eyes gleam underneath a rakish, curly flop of dark hair.

“Er. Hey,” says John, smoothly.

Leather-jacket man’s grin widens and he waves his cigarette.

“So?”

“What? Oh, no. Thanks. Er. I don’t smoke. That’s…not that you shouldn’t. You should! Free country and all that. Um.” Oh god, he’s babbling. Leather-jacket man is looking at him askance and he shuffles away from the window.

“Um, feel free to…” he finishes lamely, gesturing.

“Thanks,” says leather-jacket man, putting down his whisky and leaning out of the window. He takes the first drag with an almost orgasmic sigh before settling himself more comfortably on the sill.

“Greg,” he says, holding out his hand. John takes it. It’s warm and soft. He bites his lip and takes a swig of beer.

“I’m John.”

“This your flat?” says Greg. John is momentarily distracted by his soft, gravelly voice, smoke-hoarse.

“Yeah, mine and Mike’s. Just moved in.”

“S’nice,” says Greg. He leans out of the window to take another long drag, the tips of his fingers touching to his lips.

John looks around at the bare walls of his room; he’s not even unpacked any of his books yet.

“Just student digs,” he says, purposely not looking at Greg’s mouth (surely smoking shouldn’t look that obscene?), focussing instead on his beer.

“You at Bart’s too?” he asks, to fill the silence.

Greg barks out a laugh. “No, my student days are behind me, sadly.”

“Oh,” says John, looking back up to study Greg’s face, and right enough he looks well into his twenties to John’s eighteen.

“I know someone who works there,” Greg says, by way of explanation. “And I was at a loose end, so,”

John starts, looking up when a weight settles on the bed next to him. Greg’s dark eyes are very close and he smells like sharp, fragrant smoke.

“You’re very cute,” murmurs Greg, moving one of his fingers over to trace over the skin of John’s palm. John gasps a little at the contact, half-wanting more and half-wanting to jerk away because he thinks he knows exactly where this is leading (Greg’s soft _soft_ looking mouth) and he’s not entirely sure if he’s ok with it or not.

“Um,” he says. “I should, we should…” He pulls away a little, and Greg lets him, shuffling until he’s completely reclined on John’s bed. John licks his lower lip.

“Whisky?” says Greg, apparently willing to ignore John’s awkwardness.

“Alright,” says John. Anything to help still the trembling of his hands.

“S’on the floor. Pass it up, will you?”

John takes a short swig, managing not to shudder too much at the taste. After the initial bitterness it’s not unpleasant, actually; he can feel the slow heat of it unfurling in his belly. After a few more mouthfuls his head feels nicely fuzzy.

“Good?” says Greg. He’s got a little smile twitching on his lips. They’re very pretty lips, for a man.

“Thanks, I think.”

John looks up into Greg’s heated gaze, can feel the flush spreading rapidly over his face, only partially aided by the whisky.

“Er,” he says.

“That’s alright,” Greg says, eyes fixed on John’s. “I think you’ve got a _very_ pretty mouth too.”

Fuck. His voice is _filthy_. John takes another drink. He doesn’t entirely know why he doesn’t just do it. If being a student isn’t the time for experimenting, when is? Kissing is lovely, and Greg is very, very lovely. John turns his head to the side. It’s like taking that leap off the highest diving board. His heart thumps terrified in his chest and his mouth is dry but he’s never been cowardly. Greg’s breath is hot and damp against his face. He moves in.

 _Oh_.

If he stops to think about it he thinks he might hyperventilate; is heart is beating so fast it’s already making him lightheaded. His lips brush the softest touch against Greg’s, tentative and trembling and _god_ he is so hard already that it’s ridiculous. He shifts, lets out a shuddering breath and opens his mouth a little.

He half expects Greg to just grab him and snog the life out of him, but the kiss stays just as soft and sweet, just as brain-meltingly hot. When he feels the first hesitant damp touch of Greg’s tongue sweep gently over his lower lip he lets out a pathetic little squeaking moan and Greg pants into his mouth.

“God, you’re so hot, John,” he breathes in between soft, melting kisses. He tangles one hand in John’s hair, the cool sleeve of his jacket brushing against John’s jaw, and places his other hand just above John’s trembling knee.

There’s a bang at the door and John falls off the bed.

-

John scrambles upright and goes to the (thankfully un-opened) door, and Greg lets his head fall back against the wall with a thump.

He should have known that his luck isn’t that good. He’s been jammy enough already this evening – having a gorgeous fair-haired boy make eyes at him in the off-licence, then finding said gorgeous boy all on his lonesome at the very party he’d been dragged along to. (Admittedly John has terrible taste in clothes, but Greg wouldn’t be much cop as a policeman if he couldn’t spot strong arms and slim hips hiding under a hideous global hypercolour t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans.)

Now even if they’re not interrupted again, John’s nervous enough that the mood’s been-

Greg’s train of thought is derailed by the metallic _snick_ of a door being locked. He looks across the room to see John with his hand on the key, looking unsure until he catches Greg’s eye and grins. It’s pure cheek, bright and lovely. Greg’s mouth and cock both twitch in response.

_Game on._

“Get some, Johnny!” yells a voice outside the door, and John’s face falls in embarrassment.

Greg snorts, sits up, takes his boots off, shrugs out of his jacket, drops it on the floor next to his boots, and leans back on the bed. John finally comes over to join him on the bed, likewise kicking his shoes off before sitting back next to him.

Greg’s skin thrums with the whisky and the heat of John’s body along his side.

“Sorry about that,” John mutters.

Greg shrugs. “S’alright. One of my mates once climbed a drainpipe to see if I’d got lucky with a girl.” He notices John’s panicked glance towards the window. “Oh, don’t worry, he won’t do that again – fell and broke his ankle.”

He rests a hand on John’s leg almost absent-mindedly and strokes his thumb in small circles.

“So,” says John, looking at Greg out of the corner of his eye. “Um. Do you like girls too, then?”

“Sometimes.” Greg watches John lick his lips. “I like you better.”

John swallows. Greg wonders if he’s blushing. He leans closer to ask but is stopped by John suddenly turning his head and kissing him, open-mouthed and clumsy.

Fuck, _yes_. There’s no trace of shyness now. John’s eager, desperate even, licking his way hungrily round Greg’s mouth and twisting round to get closer until he’s half in his lap. Greg slides his hands under John’s arse and pulls him up the rest of the way until he’s straddling Greg’s legs, hands smacked flat against the wall behind as he kisses Greg impatiently.

John’s mouth tastes of cheap whisky and cheaper beer, there’s shitty britpop vibrating through the wall, and Greg’s harder than he’s been in years.

He slides his hands into John’s back pockets and digs his fingers into the firm flesh, grinding John down against his cock as they slide their tongues together. “Jesus,” he groans, rocking John’s hips back and forth. “I would fuck you _so hard_.”

John moans and thrusts against Greg’s stomach. Greg reluctantly stops kissing him for a moment, just long enough to push John’s t-shirt up and over his head before stripping his own off in one quick movement, and reaches down to palm John’s erection through the thick denim.

John freezes at the first touch of Greg’s hand.

“Alright?” asks Greg. They’re both breathing heavily and their chests are damp with sweat from where they’ve been pressed together. He strokes his hand up and down John’s warm, smooth back while he waits.

After a long moment, John nods and pushes against Greg’s palm.

“Yes,” he croaks before clearing his throat. “ _Ah,_ fuck yes.”

Greg drags his thumb up and down John’s hard length as he kisses him, slow and sweet, swallowing his whimpers.

“Do you mind if we lie down?” he murmurs in John’s ear. “I’d like to get the rest of your clothes off, and this isn’t exactly the best position for that.”

John exhales shakily. “Oh, what the hell. Yes. _Please_ , yes.”

Greg grabs John’s arse again, lifts, twists, and drops John on his back. He sits back to take in the view by the twin dim lights of the moon and the streetlamp outside.

It’s quite a sight.

John’s half-naked and wide-eyed, legs spread wide, flushed from his swollen lips all the way down to the painfully hard cock outlined against the front of his jeans. Greg will be wanking to this image for months to come.

He doesn’t know if this is John’s first time (with a man, with anyone) but he’s suddenly determined to be memorable.

He runs his hands up John’s firm thighs with reverent appreciation before undoing John’s jeans, tugging them and his underwear down so that his cock bobs free. After taking a moment to look at John – propped up on his elbows, biting his lip as he stares at Greg – he bends down and takes him into his mouth.

“ _Oh_ my god.”

Greg’s barely even sucking, just enjoying the feeling of John’s thick cock filling his mouth and the salt of pre-come on his tongue. He concentrates on working John’s jeans the rest of the way off with his feet before shimmying out of his own.

“Oh my _god_ , oh my god, oh fuck…”

Greg pulls off, and John falls back onto the bed with a groan.

“Bastard.”

Greg grins as he crawls up the bed. “Oh, you have no idea.” He tugs John onto his side so that they’re facing each other.

“C’mere. Like that, yes,” he says, pulling John closer and slotting his knee between John’s legs. He exhales sharply as his erection rubs against John’s with a teasing glance of friction before wrapping one hand around them both and pulling in long, steady strokes.

It feels _fantastic_. His hand’s not big enough and they’re so slippery with pre-come that he can’t manage to get a proper grip but it’s enough; he’s so turned on that a strong breeze would probably make him come.

“Gorgeous,” he says, watching John’s flushed face. “So gorgeous, John, you have no idea.” He kisses him, deep and dirty, tongues sliding in each other’s mouths in time with his hand on their cocks, and his hand is just starting to ache when he feels John’s fingers intertwine with his.

He groans and lets himself thrust roughly in the tight grip of their joined hands.

“Oh _fuck_ yes,” he gasps, pressing his forehead against John’s as they share hot, humid breaths. John ruts against him with an incoherent whine and he can’t help himself; his orgasm sparks in his balls and flares brightly through his body as he shudders and comes on John’s stomach.

John follows a few seconds later with a surprised grunt as he spills over their hands. They lie there, sticky-fingered and breathing heavily, and Greg kisses him until the music changes.

-

Somewhere in the back of John’s consciousness, there’s a little voice screeching ‘Gay! Gay! So fucking gay!’, but he really can’t bring himself to care. He can’t even bring himself to care about the mess of come all over their joined hands, his stomach and (ugh) his freshly washed duvet, because Greg is sucking ever so lightly on his lower lip and most of his brainpower is fizzling out in the face of such temptations.

“Mm,” says Greg, pulling back and looking down with a slight wrinkle of his nose. “Your t-shirt close to hand?”

John twists around and finds it beside the bed. Greg cleans them up as best he can and moves to sit up, but John is faster and has him straddled, hands pinned, before he can move far.

“Have somewhere to be?” he asks.

“Unh,” says Greg, looking surprised. John stretches out and writhes a little against him, still soft but feeling deliciously oversensitive. He feels the hairs prickling on his thighs. Greg’s hand slides down to cup his arse and he writhes a little more, pressing his open mouth against a rather lovely golden collarbone.

“Jesus,” Greg rasps. “Ever heard of a refractory period?”

“I’m _eighteen_ ,” says John, pulling back to grin down at him and giving a tiny little thrust to demonstrate. Greg swallows, tongue sliding out to wet his lips.

“Once,” murmurs John, leaning close to his ear (heart pounding at his own daring), “I managed to make myself come twice in a row. Just…just kept on going.”

“Christ,” groans Greg, hands tightening where they’re gripping John’s hips. John can feel the soft swell of his cock against his own.

“God, come here you absolute fucking tease.” And then he’s being pulled downwards, limbs flailing slightly as Greg presses them together and slides his hands into John’s hair to pull him in for a kiss. It’s soft and syrupy and, having come already, all sense of urgency has faded; John’s pretty content just to lie here and slide his tongue against Greg’s slow and hot. He’s trailing his mouth a little clumsily along the smooth line of Greg’s jaw when a thought occurs to him that makes his stomach flip in both excitement and (slight) terror. _God_. Can he ask? Is he drunk enough to ask? Yes. Yes he is.

He pulls back and Jesus bloody fuck Greg is gorgeous; heat pools in his belly just at the sight of him.

“Can I—” he starts, then falters, feeling his face heat.

“Can you what, lovely?”

“Um,” he stammers (god he’s going to sound ridiculous, already sounds ridiculous), “can I s-suck you? I want to try, um,”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” breathes Greg, lifting a hand to draw his thumb over John’s bottom lip. John licks it, tasting salt, and Greg’s eyes flutter closed for a moment before opening again, hooded. Then he leans backwards and John feels him spread his legs. Fuck.

He looks down. Greg’s cock is still half-soft, and is lying against his belly, but as he watches it thickens a little more. His mouth waters a bit and he swallows, glances back up to where Greg is just staring at him, lips parted.

He shimmies downwards until he finds himself face to face (or, more accurately, face to cock) with Greg’s crotch, and decides to plunge right in by burying his nose in the crease of Greg’s thigh and breathing deep.

“Ah,” says Greg, and John feels soft skin twitching against his cheek. He nuzzles a little, before moving over and dragging his tongue experimentally up and along the length of it. He can _feel_ it getting hard against his tongue, and Greg lets out a long, shaky breath, his hand gently petting into John’s hair.

“Is this…” John murmurs, lips brushing against skin as soft as silk.

Greg’s throat clicks on a swallow. “Yeah, yeah,” he breathes. “Just. More of your tongue. Uh, like that. Oh.”

John licks tentatively at first, working himself up to sliding the whole thing in his mouth because Greg is actually pretty big and up close it’s kind of intimidating. He discovers quickly that a steadying hand is infinitely helpful, and carefully pulls Greg’s foreskin down to tongue around the slick head. It tastes odd, but kind of hot. Salty, bitter. A heady thrill rushes through him at the little stifled sounds Greg is making, and he opens his mouth and slides down just a bit.

“ _Fuck_ ,” groans Greg softly. “Oh, fucking…fuck. John.”

John sucks hesitantly. There’s a lot to concentrate on at once; mostly he tries to avoid scraping Greg with his teeth as he swallows and licks and tries to move his head. Greg seems to be trying to stay as still as possible. His thighs are trembling on either side of John’s head, and John shows his appreciation by lapping soft over the slit and prodding slightly in with his tongue.

After what seems like quite a long time spent softly sucking and licking, his jaw begins to ache and he pulls off, a little disappointed that he hasn’t made Greg come. Disappointment which is swept aside by a sudden rush of _fuck, yes_ when he looks up. Greg looks completely wrecked. His lips are bitten red, chest heaving, eyes liquid dark, and he’s looking at John like he wants nothing better than to eat him up.

John sits back on his heels, still between Greg’s spread legs and, still feeling daring, snakes a slow, teasing hand down his chest, allowing his eyes to flutter shut briefly as he brushes over his nipple.

“Hell,” says Greg, voice dark and thick. Then, “Oh, _yeah_ ,” as John’s hand wraps around his own cock. He jerks himself slowly, heat singing through his veins as Greg’s dark eyes flick over him and _oh,_ this isn’t going to take long at all.

“Oh, you’re close, aren’t you?” croons Greg, wrapping a hand around himself in a mirror of John.

“Yeah,” John breathes, moving his hips, fucking up into the circle of his hand and letting Greg watch. He’s so close he can almost taste it. He slides his hand over himself harder, faster, feeling shivery little waves of pleasure blossoming. Greg’s stroking himself almost absent-mindedly, eyes fixed on John, and just when John’s struggling towards orgasm, arching a little, arm tensing, he whispers “come on, come on my dick,” and John chokes out a desperate, ridiculous moan and comes all over him, his stomach, his cock, some even hits the underside of his chin. 

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” whines Greg, and then he’s jerking into his slippery, come-slicked fist and John can’t do much more than collapse beside him and pant.

“God, I’m dead,” gasps Greg, and John looks over at him flushed and sweaty and covered in come and can’t stop the helpless giggle that bubbles up in his throat.

“Fuck off,” Greg says, with no heat. “Jesus. I feel like my brains’ve leaked out my ears.”

“You _look_ more like they’ve leaked out your cock,” mumbles John sleepily.

“Mmm,”

John leans over and smears their mouths together, and then falls backwards onto the pillows to gaze at the ceiling, feeling lassitude, whisky and hazy pleasure combine to push him slowly into unconsciousness. He might be dreaming when he feels the ghost of fingertips tracing over his ribcage.

-

Greg wakes up early the next morning to find sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. He closes his eyes with a wince.

His head aches, he’s desperate for a piss, he’s naked, and there’s another naked body squeezed in next to his on the single bed - so far, so normal for a Sunday morning. He casts his mind back to the previous night. 

_Oh, well done me._ There’s a smug grin on his face as memories of the two(!) rounds come into focus. He luxuriates in a full-body stretch, every twinge bringing back another delicious memory, before a thought occurs and he levers himself up on one elbow to check if the boy ( _John_ , his memory helpfully supplies) is as pretty as he remembers.

 _Very well done indeed._ He leers, then has a moment of panic because John looks worryingly young in his sleep. But no, it’s ok - John’s a student, plus he had ID at the off-licence so he must be at least eighteen. Which is nearly ten years younger than Greg, and still a strong contender for ‘too fucking young’.

Christ, Greg feels old.

He scrubs his face with his hands and decides that a cup of tea will do wonders for his hangover-induced melancholy. He manages to shuffle down the bed, retrieve his clothes from the floor, and get dressed without waking John. When he doesn’t hear any signs of movement at the door, he tip-toes out into the corridor, closes the door quietly, and strolls to the kitchen with his best ‘just spent the night on the sofa, gosh isn’t it uncomfortable’’ walk.

Thankfully, no-one else is up. The rush of water when he fills the kettle reminds him of his first waking thought, and he nips off for a piss while it boils. He’s back in time to rummage through the mostly bare cupboards until he finds a box of teabags, a couple of clean-looking mugs and a pint of milk in the fridge door that passes the sniff-test.

He makes two cups of tea and leans carefully against a section of the kitchen counter that is slightly less covered with empty beer cans and crisp packets than the rest. Cradling one of the mugs in his hands, he blows on the hot liquid and considers his options.

Option number one is to take the other cup of tea through to John and (if he’s awake) thank him for a good time before heading home to get ready for his afternoon shift. It’s a nice, sensible plan.

Option number two is to take the other cup of tea through to John and wake him up to see if he fancies a morning shag.

He _likes_ option number two. 

Greg knocks back his tea and stealthily retraces his steps to John’s room.

John’s still fast asleep, sprawled out face-down with the duvet covering him nearly up to his waist. Greg stands by the bed for a moment and drinks in the sight of him - tousled fair hair, lovely unblemished back, and red fingermarks just visible at the top of his arse.

“Morning,” he says, setting John’s tea down on the bedside table. 

John makes an unintelligible noise.

“There’s tea on the side.”

John makes a no less unintelligible but slightly more hopeful sounding noise, stretches and opens his eyes. He looks up at Greg, blinking, and Greg’s about to propose joining him in bed when John’s body tenses with a look Greg knows depressingly well.

It’s the ‘oh god, I had sex with a man last night and I now I need to convince myself that I’m not gay’ look. It doesn’t usually lead to anything good. It’s _definitely_ never a precursor to lusty gay sex.

“Um,” says John.

“Morning,” says Greg again. “I’ve got to get to work, so I’ll be off now.”

“Ah,” says John intelligently. Greg spares a thought to worry about the future of the medical profession, then dismisses it.

“Thanks for last night,” he says sincerely, before thinking _what the hell_ and bending down to give John a quick kiss on the lips. John doesn’t flinch away, but he doesn’t kiss him back.

Greg grabs his jacket. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Right,” says John, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “Um, you too.”

Greg lets himself out of the flat and catches the first bus he can find that’s heading in the direction of home.

-

John turns his face into the pillow and groans. That could have gone better. God, fuck. The hot, suggestive look in Greg’s eyes had provoked a tight, unexpected twist of panic in his gut, which must have shown as clear as day on his face. His lips tingle. His head aches. His mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. Ugh.

Pissed at 3am is one thing, but the phantom sensation of his tongue dragging slick over soft, lightly furred skin feels like the kind of dream he’d wake up from with his heart pounding in twin arousal and panic. It would twist inside him with hot shame all day and sing under his skin, making him think that people were _looking_ and _knowing_ and shitting hell now he’s gone and actually done it. Fuck.

Tea, he needs tea. He looks over to his bedside table where the steaming mug is waiting for him, hesitates, and then grabs it to take a long, blissful gulp. It’s perfect.

-

The easiest thing to do, absolutely the best and most sensible thing to do would be to file it away and never think about it again. Teenaged experimentation, mark an ‘X’ in the box, done, good, carry on. Continue with life, do not pass Go, do not collect hysterical sexuality crisis.

The problem is, he can’t _stop_ thinking about it.

 _Within the tunica media, smooth muscle and the extracellular matrix are quantitatively the largest components of the aortic vascular wall and “come on, come on my dick”, dark eyes, red mouth that tasted of whisky and smoke and fuck fuckity bollocks_.

He stares unseeingly at the overhead projector where a graphic photograph of a pig’s sliced up heart gleams wetly, and relives the feeling of Greg’s mouth on him, soft and welcoming, little flicks of tongue making him shiver and gasp.

And when he’s _not_ thinking about pig’s hearts and aortic valves and blood viscosity it’s even worse. The first night he’d tried to resist, but he’d forgotten to change his sheets and he could fucking _smell_ them on it, heady and irresistible and he’d splayed on his belly and pressed his nose into the pillow and rutted and squirmed and imagined Greg big and solid and warm splayed over his back and he’d come spilling into his hand with a shameful whimper about ten seconds later.

-

He goes home the next weekend, and sneaks into Harry’s room where he knows she’s got a stack of wank mags. She’d slipped one as a ‘surprise’ into his bag before a school trip to France and he’d had to hide it at the bottom of his rucksack so the rest of the lads didn’t find it and rip the piss out of him for all eternity. She hadn’t even had the decency to make it a girly one. He can’t remember what happened to it in the end (probably ended up surreptitiously chucked into a wheelie bin before his mum could spot it), but he _can_ remember the heavily muscled, oiled men kissing on the cover with startling clarity, though he hadn’t done more than look and blush at the time.

It’s past midnight and he’s on his belly under Harry’s bed with a torch, rifling through covers adorned with plump breasts, perky nipples, pouting, lovely lips and every so often just a hint of something slick and wet peeking between manicured fingers, so that when he finally reaches the bottom of the stack where a slim, dark-skinned man cups a hand over his ample crotch he’s already half-hard and squirming a bit uncomfortably on the floor. He grabs the first two mags, stuffs them up his pyjama top and creeps back to his room, heart pounding.

Feeling a little like he’s about to jump off a cliff, he slides into bed, switches on the lamp on the side table and slowly opens one of the magazines. Right. Wow. He can feel his face turning red and there’s nobody even here. Nope. Nobody. It’s just him and the man gazing up at him from the page with his hands wrapped around a very hard, very large dick.

 _It’s shiny_ is all he can really process before the man’s intense stare gets a bit much and he flips the page, feeling ridiculous and faintly ashamed of himself.

It’s nothing like he felt with Greg. Is that a relief or not? He’s not sure. He stares again at a picture of a man with shoulder length blonde hair and a moustache. He is standing on a hay bale, pitchfork in one hand, cock in the other, nude aside from a cowboy hat. John begins to giggle, stifling them with one hand as he flips several pages forward. His giggles die in his throat.

 _Fuck_.

The picture shows two men on a bed. The first, on his back, is slim and young looking, chest smooth and slightly tanned, and he has short, dark hair. His head is tipped back and his knees are up by his chest and he has a look of open-mouthed bliss on his face, which is clearly caused by the…the, _God_. John stares, swallows, feels his cock go from zero to eleven in about five seconds. The other man, older and a little more hirsute, is knelt between his spread legs, holding them open and John can clearly see his dick where it’s slick and shiny and pushing _in_. He lets out a strangled little gasp and shoves his hand into his pyjama bottoms, unable to tear his eyes away. He turns the page with one trembling hand, and this time the older bloke is sitting up, the younger one facing the camera, held in his lap and fucking _impaled_ on his thick cock and John is coming with a choked groan, hardly having touched himself at all. He lies in the dark for a while, gasping. And then he begins to laugh. 

-

Greg gets a seat at the back of the bus and settles in to wallow in self-pity. The conditions are perfect – throbbing headache, blue balls and a crowded, stinking bus - but it only takes a few stops before he’s feeling remarkably sanguine about the whole thing. By the time he’s got home, popped a couple of aspirin and had a bacon sandwich, he’s back to feeling his usual sunny self.

Because honestly, it was hardly the most awkward morning-after that he’s had (that prize has already been taken by a girl’s fiancé coming home early from his night-shift), and the night before had been the best he’d had in … well, a long time. He spends ten minutes trying to decide which had been his favourite (the first time had all the excitement of being new but the second was definitely filthier) before he remembers that he does actually need to go to work at some point.

Having a quick wank in the shower also helps to soothe the sting of rejection. It doesn’t take much to get him hard again, just thinking of the way John had looked when he’d straddled Greg, all shy bravado and desperate teenage horniness. Oh, and the sounds he’d made, _Jesus_. Greg wonders if John had even noticed how much he was moaning around Greg’s cock in his mouth, like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He remembers the soft whimpers that had escaped when John was fucking Greg’s fist, then imagines John making those sounds while Greg fucks him and comes on the shower screen with a startling suddenness.

-

Two weeks later and Greg’s back on Camden High Street, except this time he’s in uniform and stuck listening to the romantic woes of PC Stanley Hopkins.

“So then she says-“

“You do remember that we’re working, right?” interrupts Greg. “Last time I checked, my badge didn’t say Police Sergeant Claire bloody Rayner.”

Hopkins is quiet for a blessed couple of minutes as they patrol the street, watching the late afternoon pub crowd for drug dealers.

“So, you going for detective then?” he asks eventually

Greg shrugs. “Maybe. Someone’s got to give those prats a hand.” In fact he’s dead-set on it and has been studying for the exams on the quiet, but he doesn’t want Hopkins to be offended. God knows Greg doesn’t look down on regular policework, but there’s plenty on the other side who do and they both know it.

Hopkins relaxes a bit and nods his head to a couple of men standing close together outside The World’s End.

“What about them?”

Greg glances briefly but doesn’t slow down. “Not technically illegal.”

It takes Hopkins a moment to catch on. “Oh,” he says. “Should be, though. Did I tell you one of them tried to chat me up once?”

Greg snorts. “Ugly mug like yours? Must have been blind.” He doesn’t mind Hopkins, who’s just young and a little bit stupid but had at least been against the entrapment operations run on Hampstead Heath. Admittedly, that was because Hopkins lived in mortal fear of being molested by a rogue homosexual and thought he’d be safer if they were busy shagging each other, but still.

A movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

“There,” he murmurs. “Over in that alley.” These two men are also standing close together, except this time there’s a little plastic bag being handed over.

Hopkins makes the mistake of turning to stare. Their quarry looks up, makes eye contact, and legs it before his client can work out what’s going on.

“Shit!” Greg sprints after him. Hopkins thunders close behind him as they come out the other end of the alley and chase the skinny man through the back streets. The dealer is just drawing away from them when he passes a busy beer garden and someone leaps out and tackles him to the ground.

Greg skids to a halt in front of them. The stranger manages to get a knee in the suspect’s back before turning to look up at Greg.

“Hello,” says John.

-

John is pretty impressed with himself. He got out words. Syllables, even. And they made sense. All in the face of miles and miles of sleek, uniformed police officer. Sleek, uniformed police officer who is grinning devastatingly down at him as he reaches into his belt to pull out a pair of worn looking handcuffs. John’s mouth goes abruptly dry.

Before he can say anything else, the man on the ground takes advantage of his momentary immobility to start trying to squirm away, remarkably strong under his wiry exterior. John scrabbles to take hold of his arms, but Greg is already there, cuffing the bloke with a practiced ease that has John remembering his _hands_ and oh my god, if he’d begun to tell himself that he wasn’t completely fucked, this smashes those thoughts into millions of tiny little pieces.

“Hey,” Greg says, grinning. John swallows.

Suddenly, he becomes aware of a sound from behind him, and turns slowly to face an entire beer garden cheering and clapping, Mike the loudest voice among them. The man on the ground swears colourfully.

The young officer with Greg starts to herd the spectators away from the hedge, pressing buttons on his radio as he does so, and John slowly gets to his feet and brushes his knees off awkwardly.

“Thanks,” says Greg, voice warm, “seriously mate, would’ve lost him completely if it weren’t for you.”

“Ya fuckin’ brown-nosed cunt,” the man rasps against the concrete. Greg yanks on his cuffs a little harder than necessary to get him to his feet as the sound of police sirens is suddenly audible above the noise of the traffic. “Listen,” says Greg. “I get off at eight. You still gonna be here?”

“Um,” says John. “Um, yeah, I could be.”

“Reckon I owe you a pint for that, at least,” Greg says with what is quite possibly a bit of a leer, but he doesn’t have time to say anything else before Greg is helping wrestle the squirming, swearing man into the back of the car, throwing John a wink and sliding smoothly into the front seat. John is left dusty kneed and alone on the pavement, and it takes him a good minute to gather himself and go back into the pub.

“You know that bloke then?” says Mike as he settles himself back down at their table, clutching at a pint.

“Met him at the party,” he says, and hard as he tries he absolutely cannot stop his face from flooding hot, his lips from quirking up ever so slightly.

“Ohhh,” says Mike, beginning to grin himself. “Oh. _Really?_ ”

“Um,” says John, feeling his face heat even more, and Mike pats him on the arm.

“Not a word, Johnny,” he says, taking a long swig of bitter to mask his smile, “not a word.”

John pillows his head on his arms with a groan.

-

Eight o’clock finds John on his own in a booth (Mike having made his flimsy excuses ten minutes earlier with a wink and a ruffle of his hair) and nursing the same pint he’d bought nearly an hour before. It’s warm from his hand, but he takes a swig anyway and resists the urge to peer around the corner every ten seconds. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend, a wife even. Respectable and that. John’d speculated that he was probably the type of bloke who was in some sort of punk band. Owned a motorbike maybe. Did coke on weekends. Not a smiling bobby in a neat, buttoned uniform. He hadn’t asked though, had he? John is a little ashamed and a little thrilled to realise that they’d only spoken for about fifteen minutes before they were having sex on his bed. He bites his lip, thinking of it, and Greg chooses that moment to set two pints abruptly down on the table and wriggle into the booth, flashing John a toothy grin as he slides one of them over.

“H’lo,” he says, looking for a second like he might lean over for a kiss, but then he takes a long gulp of beer and John shakes the thought off. It’d get them chucked out in five seconds flat anyway, by the look of the barman, tattooed St George’s Cross on his meaty neck. Probably roughed up a bit too. He presses his lips together.

“Thanks,” he says, pushing his warm, half-finished glass to the side and clutching the new one with both hands. “You didn’t have to, you know. It was nothing.”

“Woulda lost ‘im, as I said,” says Greg, licking his lips of foam. “Another rat scurrying around dealing coke cut with who knows what, fucking scum. Sorry,” he adds. “Been a long day.”

“Thought it was usually just sugar?” says John.

“Sugar, baking powder, caffeine tablets. That’s the best of it. That bloke earlier had his cut with smack.”

“Jesus,” says John. “Why would he do that?”

“More addictive. Bigger high. He’ll have been looking for repeat customers.”

“Repeat customers who want to have a fucking heart attack? Christ.”

Greg looks up, eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah, doctor in training, right?”

“Surgeon, hopefully,” John corrects. Greg’s eyebrows rise even higher.

“So where’d you learn to take a man out like that then, _doctor_?”

John blushes and Greg grins.

“Been doing some courses, y’know. Military fitness and that. Thinking of joining the army actually, when I finish.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Hasn’t told anyone, actually, not even his mum. It feels good, though, to get it out there. Greg takes a long swallow of beer, nodding. “Army doctor, eh?”

“That’d be nice,” agrees John. “A life of taking out appendixes day after day would kill me quicker than a bullet anyway.”

Greg nods in agreement, takes another drink as John draws shapes in a pool of spilled beer on the table.

“Listen, d’you want to—”

“I was thinking—”

They both stop, and John looks down into his glass with a smile as he feels Greg’s foot nudge against his. His belly does a quick somersault.

“Shall we get out of here?” says Greg.

John flicks his eyes down to Greg’s mouth and back up. “Alright then,” he says.

-

Greg leads John on a brisk walk through the back streets. There’s a chill in the air now that the sun’s gone down, but that’s not why Greg’s got goosebumps.

“So, you live round here then,” says John tentatively.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.”

_If we cut down that alley there then take Caledonian Rd we can shave off another minute, which makes it ... seven minutes until I can get my hands down your trousers. Too long._

“Share a house with my brother and his girlfriend. It’s her you’ve got to blame for me being at your party, actually – works as a nurse at Bart’s.”

_On the night shift this week, thank fuck, and Sean’s not back til Sunday, so I can start getting your clothes off the moment we’re inside the house._

“Oh right.” John follows Greg into the alley. “Do I-“

It’s not that Greg isn’t interested in what John has to say, it’s just incredibly, overwhelmingly important that he kisses him right now.

Greg crowds John up against the cold wall, kissing him roughly even as he cradles the back of John’s head with one hand to stop it scraping against the rough brickwork. John doesn’t object. He digs both hands into Greg’s back pockets and gropes his arse clumsily, which has the happy side-effect of thrusting their groins together.

He knows they haven’t got long; they’ll probably need to breathe at some point, and the distant voices tell him that they’ll have company in a few minutes. Still, for now he’s got short hair tickling his palm, a warm hand fumbling its way under his t-shirt and an eager man panting into his mouth.

There’s a loud noise behind him.

Greg jumps back, whirling round to see a cat running away from a broken bottle that has obviously just been knocked over. He lets out a breath and laughs shakily as blood rushes back to the rest of his body.

“Bloody cat.”

He glances at John (wide-eyed, red-faced in the harsh glow of a nearby streetlight) and wonders if he’s having second thoughts.

“I hate cats,” says John. He blinks and adjusts himself. “So we should probably get to yours as soon as possible,” he continues in a rush before looking up at Greg. “In case there are any more. Cats, I mean.”

Greg’s smile is so wide it nearly hurts.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a genius?”

“”Oh, all the time,” says John. “Only not often, you know. Out loud.”

-

Even running, it takes them five minutes to get to Greg’s house.

Greg digs his keys out and fumbles with the lock, because John’s staring at his backside and that is apparently enough to make him into a fucking moron.

“Nice house,” says John, looking around at the cluttered hallway as he steps inside.

Greg locks the door and turns round to find John staring at him. He wonders if John would have noticed if the house was actually on fire. Then he does the polite thing and kisses him.

The kiss isn’t polite. It’s slower, now that they’ve got time, but there’s nothing polite about the way Greg’s tongue thrusts into John’s mouth, or the way their hands roam greedily over each other’s bodies.

Greg pulls John’s jacket off before shrugging out of his own, while John grinds against Greg’s thigh as if he can evaporate the denim through friction and force of will (he’s hard enough that Greg thinks he has a decent chance).

He takes hold of John’s hips and walks him into the living room, snogging him firmly at every step.

“Oof.” John falls back on the low sofa.

Greg drops to his knees between John’s open thighs, runs his hands under John’s t-shirt and licks his way up John’s neck.

“Ah, _shit_ ,” says John, his eyes squeezed shut as Greg sucks a mark above his collarbone.

He smells _gorgeous_. Warm and masculine, with a faint trace of Lynx that reminds Greg of changing rooms full of teenage boys and nights spent wanking to fantasies about them. He drags his hands across John’s taut stomach and reaches for his fly.

“Housemates!” John’s eyes fly open as he grabs Greg’s wrist. “What about your housemates?”

“Out.” Greg uses his free hand to palm John’s erection. “Not back for hours.”

“Oh.” John’s eyelids flutter shut as his head falls back on the sagging back cushion. He lets go of Greg’s wrist.

Greg unzips John’s fly at a teasing pace, and leans forward to whisper in his ear.

“I’m going to suck you off, right here. And I’m going to enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but you?  
You’re going to fucking _love_ it.”

John swallows and lifts his hips.

“Don’t be quiet. I want to hear.”

Greg leans back on his heels and eases John’s jeans and underwear down to his ankles. John’s cock bobs in time with his shuddery breaths, and Greg grins as he leans forward and wraps his lips round the lovely wet head.

“Fuck! Shit, I-“

John shoves a hand in his mouth as Greg sucks but doesn’t swallow, letting the saliva build up until it runs down his chin. He keeps his eyes open and watches the flush of arousal as it spreads down John’s chest from under his hiked-up t-shirt.

It’s a massive turn-on, watching John’s self-restraint fight a losing battle. John manages to stop himself from shouting out loud, but his body’s screaming Greg’s name loud and clear – thighs straining to spread wider, balls tight, hips quivering, cock swelling and dripping in his mouth.

Greg would come in a heartbeat if he could just touch his cock.

He reaches up, grabs John’s hand out of his mouth, and holds it down on the sofa seat.

“What are you - god, oh _fuck!_ “

John _finally_ makes eye contact and it tips him over the edge with a broken moan. Greg looks into those pretty blue eyes, swallows, and holds John’s hand as it clenches in the cheap fabric of the sofa seat.

-

“Um,” John manages, then “ _Uh_ ,” as Greg continues to suck softly at him, gentle sliding pulls that just hover on the edge of overstimulation. His eyes make an effort to roll back in his head but Greg is gazing up at him and he can’t seem to look away. He shivers, makes to pull Greg up and kiss him or _something_ but Greg just slides his fingers to John’s hips and holds him there while he nuzzles and hums. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He hears himself making a high-pitched, breathless noise and shoves his fist back into his mouth to bite down on.

Greg pulls back with a soft wet sound, only to drag John’s trousers off his ankles, push his knees further apart and nose at his balls. His breath is hot, and John’s face is hotter, and he squirms into the touch, away from it. Breathless with shame and arousal.

“ _God,_ you smell fucking delicious,” says Greg, his voice rough. Then there’s a tiny wet touch behind his balls which he doesn’t quite process at first but when he _does_ he can’t hold back a little desperate sob into his fist.

Another lick, long and slow this time. Wet. “You like that?” breathed out warm against him. It feels filthy. Intimate.

John isn’t sure he can remember how to breathe, let alone speak. He lets out some sort of noisy exhalation that must sound like an affirmation, because Greg spreads him wider and fucking _kisses_ him.

“Oh, _god_!”

“Knew you’d love this.” Another kiss, _sucking_. John’s legs shake. “Am I the first person to have my mouth here?” a slow, dirty slide of tongue, slippery wet, “to touch you here?” John nods, swallowing, forgetting that Greg can’t see him, needs to hear him.

“I’m going to lick you until you’re _begging_ for it, then I’m going to rub my cock all over your wet little arsehole. You want that?”

John moans. His hands clutch at nothing, at the sofa, at Greg’s hair. Heat skitters over his skin, everywhere, and he’s not entirely sure if getting hard again this quickly after coming hurts more than it feels good. Fuck. Greg is tonguing him with rhythmic little flicks, just slipping in and out, in, in, in, the echo of what he’d seen in those _pictures_ flooding back all at once.

“Oh, fuck.”

Greg pulls back, licking at his wet mouth. “God, yeah,” he says, and then he’s standing up and shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough that he can pull his cock out. It looks obscene, pink and thick.

“Turn over,” Greg growls. John hesitates, something swooping hot and heavy inside him. Does he want--?

“I won’t go inside,” says Greg, low and gravelly. “Just…turn over. You’ll like it.”

John squirms a little on the sofa, gasping as his half-hard cock rubs deliciously against the fabric underneath him. He feels Greg hovering over him, pushing his legs wider, fingers sliding up the backs of his thighs and up over his arse to spread him open and _oh my god_. He presses his face into the sofa cushions to stop himself from whimpering.

“Let me hear you,” says Greg, giving his arse a light smack. He turns his head to the side, breathing hard.

“Yeah, that’s it. God, you’re lovely,” and then Greg’s weight is being lowered down onto him, the hard, silky weight of his cock nudging at his balls before sliding smoothly up between the cheeks of his arse. _Fuck_.

“I _really_ want to fuck you,” Greg breathes against his ear, punctuating with a slow, shivering thrust of his hips. “Push inside you. Have you squirming under me like this, _ah_.”

“ _God_.”

John clutches tighter at the cushions, shoves shamelessly back against Greg’s cock, feeling him hard and hot and _right there, Christ._ It would only take one little push. A little shove, and he’d be… _fuck_.

“Oh,” Greg moans, “oh, you want it.” He moves faster, harder, and John can feel his panted breath against the back of his neck.

“Yess,” John says, arching up, forgetting to be nervous, forgetting everything except the prickling heat spilling out all over him. He shoves a hand down to wrap around himself.

“Fuck, you’re—” says Greg, and then he presses his face into John’s back and moans and John feels slick wet heat on his lower back, the pulse of Greg’s cock against him.

He slows his hand, just moving his hips slightly as Greg wilts heavily on top of him, his skin still tingling all over.

“Want a hand?” Greg murmurs.

“Yeah,” says John.

“Sit up a sec.”

John pushes himself to his knees, and feels Greg cleaning him up a bit with what feels like a t-shirt. He feels more than a little silly with his own still on, bare-arsed, but Greg is smoothing his fingers over his hips appreciatively and tugging him backwards against his chest and then it’s hard to feel silly when you’re being slowly jerked off with knee-trembling skill. When he comes it’s with Greg’s teeth grazing at his ear and one finger slick inside him.

“Teenagers,” Greg breathes, sounding a little awe-struck as he dabs at John with the t-shirt, causing more of a mess than he cleans up. “I should stop feeling so flattered. A filthy look’d probably have you hard again.”

“From you, yeah,” says John, too relaxed to turn off his brain to mouth filter. He flushes immediately, hoping Greg doesn’t think he’s too much of a sappy idiot. Greg squeezes his ribs a little.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, after a minute. His voice is surprisingly serious. John risks a quick look at him over his shoulder.

“Like…a date?”

“Well, yeah,” says Greg. “I mean, if you want to. You’re really…” he pauses. “I’d like to. A lot.”

“I—”

“I get,” Greg says quickly, cutting him off, “I get that it might be a bit…weird. For you, that is. That I’m a bloke, you know.”

John opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it slowly. “Yeah,” he admits, eventually. “I’d thought about it, a bit.” He licks his lips. “Pretty vaguely.”

“We could take things…slowly,” Greg suggests. There’s a pause in which they both look down at his hand, which is still clutching his t-shirt. It’s absolutely covered in come. Filthy with it. Greg’s jeans are around his thighs and John’s only wearing a t-shirt. John begins to smile.

“Slowly,” he says, “uh huh.”

“Shut it,” says Greg, apparently unable to stop a matching grin. “You know what I mean.”

“A date,” says John, tasting the words. “What kind of date?” He can’t help imagining Greg swooping down on his front step with a tuxedo and a rose in his teeth, whisking him off to…the ballet. Or something. That’s what people do on proper dates, right? Most of his girlfriends had been happy to sneak up to the back of the football fields and snog behind some bushes.

“Uh,” says Greg. “Pub?”

“Pub. Alright.” John twists up to look at Greg’s lovely smiling mouth, and yep. His belly is definitely doing the ‘I _really_ fancy you’ dance like absolute mad. “Alright then. A date.”

“Good,” says Greg, nuzzling a little bit into John’s hair. “ _Sweetheart._ ”

John elbows him in the chest.

“Pumpkin?”

“I will smother you in your sleep.”

“Kinky!”

And then Greg has squirmed out from under him and is running up the stairs, cackling and calling him _sugarpuff_ , his trousers undone, and John is chasing him and wrestling him to the ground and he isn’t wearing any pants. Alright, he thinks. Definitely, definitely alright.


End file.
